


Ancient Civilizations

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bellarke, F/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3781870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ancient civilizations and the not-so-ancient, not-so-civilized people who try to recover them (and the stubborn blonde doctor who tags along).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ancient Civilizations

His duffel bag falls to the ground by his feet, and a layer of dust kicks up from underneath it. It settles on the toes of his hiking boots, some cloaking itself over creases in his cargo pants, but he doesn’t bother to shake it off. A little dirt won’t kill him, plus his low-neck tee shirt is already stained beyond repair. It’s the price to pay for a job like his (not that he’d ever complain).

Brushing matted curls away from his forehead, Bellamy stares out over the dig site. Below the ledge he’s standing on his team has just started to arrive, pulling out their tools and tightening their laces as they bend down into the earth. Drops of sun drip down the sky in a butter yellow stream, and Bellamy takes a moment to enjoy the shadows that the early morning casts against the crumbled rock. In the horizon, the cherry sun lounges atop the rooftops of the city he’s been dreaming of his whole life.

It rests far in the distance, miles and miles away, but even then Bellamy feels as if one simple stretch of the arm could land him there, amidst the food and the culture and the beauty of Italy’s capital. The promise of discovery vibrates in every painted door, in every twisted alleyway. In the museums, in the restaurants, in the very ground; the entirety of Italy rumbles with it. Tightening his grip around the strap of his duffel, Bellamy marvels at the history sleeping just underneath the bed of rock at his feet. Excitement knots in a single point in his chest, but the rest of him feels loose and languid, serene in the face of the sunrise and the beauty and the promise.

“Hey, Bell!” someone calls from below. “Stop posing and get down here!” And just like that, the still morning light shatters with sound.

Rolling his eyes, Bellamy picks his way down the winding path and knocks shoulders with the cheeky owner of the voice.

“I should’ve left you in Virginia,” he gripes. Octavia just chuckles, too alive for someone up at six in the morning. Her laughter rings across the dirt ground like a chime, and the other archeologists grumble at the noise. Miller, in particular, glares grumpily at her, mouth twisted in a frown as he takes a bitter swig of his coffee.

Throwing an arm around Bellamy’s shoulder, she presses a hard kiss to his cheek. “Please. I’m the best you’ve got,” she taunts with a grin.

“Can’t argue with that,” he assents, his eyes sweeping over the rest of the team. Monroe is hammering away at a large chunk of sediment as Raven sets a boundary tape around the current excavation site. Harper is rifling through her bag, pulling out a coarse brush from the mess with a triumphant grin. Monty is sitting off to the side, logging the treasure of broken pots and other remains into his computer, but his trusty sidekick is noticeably absent.

“Where’s Jasper?” Bellamy asks, a frown curling across his face.

“I’m not sure,” Octavia replies and her eyebrows furrow. “He twisted his ankle while taking photographs yesterday—nothing too serious,” she placates when Bellamy’s eyes widen with worry. “But he hasn’t been back from the doctor yet. You know, the one Kane assigned to come with us?” She smirks. “Maybe she’s keeping him hostage.”

Bellamy sighs, running a hand over his face. Only two days in and someone’s already gotten himself hurt. Perfect.

“I’ll go get him,” he groans, passing over his bag to Octavia. “We need all the hands we can get if we’re going to finish this damn project in time.”

* * *

 

Bellamy marches to the medic tent at the edge of the dig, dust clouding up in his wake. Storming past the entrance, he scans the area until he notices Jasper lounging on a cot in the corner, playing tetris on his phone.

Fucking _tetris_.

“Jasper!” Bellamy barks, and Jasper squeaks in surprise, spinning around and stumbling to his feet. His left foot is wrapped in gauze, but Bellamy decides that with a sturdy pair of hiking boots—and without those goddamn goggles always blocking his vision—he’ll be fine out in the field.

“Come on,” he growls, and Jasper scrambles to lace up his boots. “We need you out there for cataloging.”

“He’s not going anywhere.”

Bellamy turns, frowning, and comes face to face with the most severe pair of eyes he’s ever seen. They glint like a flash of metal on a double-edged sword, and for a moment he’s trapped by the blue frost cracking across the irises. Dewy yellow eyelashes feather around the rings of ice, and dark eyebrows dip down just above them. He stands there for several seconds before he blinks—once, twice, three times. Finally the rest of the picture swims into view.

She’s a good head shorter than him, and her hair winds down her neck in a loose braid. The tail of it tickles at the hollow of her throat, bobs up and down when she swallows. Her eyes are tight, nose flared, mouth a thin line broken only by the innocent freckle above the top lip. Hands pressed firmly onto her hips, shoulders squared and ready for battle, she’s the very image of determination. Her glare is sharp, scathing, and Bellamy smirks at the challenge of it.

“Oh yeah? And who’s going to stop him?” He mocks, pushing at the rolled up sleeves of his overshirt before folding his arms across his chest. He glares down at her—jaw tense, brow furrowed—and she takes a few steps forward, stopping only a few inches from his chest. They’re so close now that Bellamy can see the grey steel of her resolve behind the initial shock of color.

“I am,” she fires back. “He needs rest, or else his ankle is just going to get worse.”

Bellamy huffs. _Who the hell does Blondie think she is?_ Sure, he may not have a fancy medical degree, but he knows what a sprained ankle is when he sees one.

“It’s not that bad,” he argues, gesturing out a hand to the gangly grad student. When the kid starts to sway back and forth on his feet, a wince in his eyes, Clarke shoots Bellamy a smug smile, and he scowls in annoyance. “He’s always fidgeting like that,” he grunts, glaring at Jasper with a look that clearly says _move another inch and I’ll end you_. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” she insists, throwing a hand up to push a wispy strand of hair out of her face. “As this group’s doctor, I clear people for field work, not you.” She says it lowly, earnestly, but all Bellamy can hear is the slow, deliberate way she sounds out the words, each sentence punctuated with a small nod of the head like she’s fucking _humoring_ him or some shit. The condescending lilt of her tone sticks to his skin like tar, and Bellamy chafes under it.

“Nice try,” he growls. “We need him out there. Besides, a little dirt won’t hurt him.” Little Miss Doctor doesn’t seem convinced, her mouth still pressed thin. He eyes her with disdain, from the regal set of her shoulders, to the cleanly filed nails, down to the prim lift of her eyebrow. She carries herself like royalty, like a rich elitist, and Bellamy glowers.

“Not that _you’d_ have any idea about that. You’re a long way from your castle, aren’t you Princess?” It’s a low blow, he knows, but Bellamy has never been known for his patience when it comes to trust fund brats.

Her eyes widen in shock, but then thin out with a wicked gleam. Audibly growling, the blonde doctor jabs a finger into his chest.

“Kindly shut the hell up before I hit you,” she snaps. Bellamy nearly laughs at the thought of the short blonde sending a fist flying his way, but before he can get a word in edgewise she’s off again.

“If I say he’s staying, he’s staying,” she commands, her voice a low hiss. “Don’t make me call Kane and tell him that you’re endangering your team.” Bellamy’s glare darkens. Of course she’d bring the higher ups into this.

Professor Kane, head of Ark University’s Humanities Program, was a grade A hardass, and he’d been hesitant to authorize the Italy Excavation Trip. He’d been even more hesitant to put Bellamy Blake in charge; much to the latter’s immense annoyance. If Kane hears a single bad word from anyone the entire project will be shut down. And there’s no way in hell Bellamy’s letting that happen, even if it means making nice with Dr. Princess.

He huffs, turning to Jasper, who had been watching the argument with terrified eyes. Under Bellamy’s glare, he shrinks back onto the cot, stuffing his phone into the pocket of his jeans.

“I want you out of here by tomorrow morning. I don’t care what the Princess has to say about it,” he demands. Lady Doctor scoffs at him, but doesn’t say anything as Bellamy spins around to pin his scowl on her.

“This isn’t over,” he promises, pushing past her and shoving his way out of the tent.

* * *

The loss of a worker slows the process down by at least five hours, and it puts Bellamy in a lethal mood for the rest of the day.

When he mentions that morning’s encounter to Octavia over dinner, he finally gets a name.

Clarke Griffin.

Fucking Princess.

* * *

 

The next morning Jasper returns as promised, but he’s not alone.

“What the hell are you doing here, Princess?” Bellamy snaps, clenching his jaw as he marches up to the two of them. Clarke rears her head, ready for battle.

“Stop calling me that,” she snarls back. “And don’t to get so fired up. I’m here to make sure you don’t get Jasper hurt even more.” Jaw ticking at the accusation, he stares at Clarke for a long moment. Jasper fidgets nervously at her side, but Clarke remains resolute, her glare hard and unblinking. The silence stretches on longer than anticipated, and Bellamy begins to feel a tad bit childish when his eyes start burning.

But Bellamy knows that he needs to play nice, and maybe having a prissy, combative shadow watching his every move wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It was much better than, say, losing his one and only opportunity to discover history in the city of his dreams.

“Fine,” he concedes, glancing down at his shoes to covertly blink dust out of his eyes (he’d never been the best at staring contests; as a child, Octavia would always beat him within seconds). When he looks up, Clarke is smirking at him. Bellamy’s frown deepens.

Facing Jasper, he growls, “Get to work.” With a weak salute and a mumbled “sir yes sir,” Jasper hobbles over to Monty’s side, but Bellamy barely notices; he’s already turned back to face Clarke.

“Do try to keep up, Your Highness,” he sneers before sauntering down the path. She grumbles something at his back but he keeps walking, shoulders rocking back and forth as he makes his way to the rest of the team.

The trail down is rocky and slippery, and Bellamy hopes that Clarke will fall flat on her ass—if only for his own amusement—but to his dismay she slides nimbly down the slope and immediately jumps into conversation with Raven.

“Hi! Clarke Griffin. I think I’ve seen you around.”

“Raven, hey. Didn’t you date Finn Collins for a while—“

“Oh god, that ship has sailed. You know him?”

“Yeah. He’s family, sort of. Dick of a boyfriend though.”

“Tell me about it.”

Of course Doctor Princess would take an instant liking to Raven fucking Reyes, the girl who once threatened him at knifepoint for touching her car. Fuck him if they don’t murder him in his sleep tonight.

He’s so busy glaring at the friendly smile that nestles onto Clarke’s face that he doesn’t notice Octavia creep up behind him. He jumps a bit when she grabs his arm, whispering a harsh “be nice” before running over to introduce herself.

Bellamy scowls. Traitor.

* * *

Contrary to what a certain broody, uncivilized individual might be inclined to believe, Clarke has no problem getting her hands dirty.

She kneels down next to Raven, marveling at the swift movement of her fingers. Each swipe of a brush pushes a pile of dirt to the side, and underneath it all a scatter of baked clay appears. It’s a beautiful process, and something about the cadence of Raven’s strokes reminds Clarke of back home—or at least her version of it—where a stack of oil paints rests on her bookshelf and where smears of color stain her ripped jeans. Most of the jagged shards glow a rusty red underneath the sun’s blaze, but Clarke’s eye catches on a single, black piece. She immediately reaches over, picking it out of the ground and turning it over carefully in her hands. Swirls of white dance up the shrapnel, curling and twisting and undulating, like—

“I’d watch out if I were you.”

With a jolt, Clarke snaps out of her thoughts, eyes flying to Raven. The brunette smirks, reaching up with her forearm to wipe a bead of sweat away. “If you break it Bellamy will literally murder you.”

“Yeah,” Clarke chuckles, cupping the clay piece gently in the palm of her hand. “He seems like the angry type.” To put it mildly.

“Nah.” Raven reaches down and pulls the battered remains of an urn from the ground. “He’s just really intense when it comes to this stuff. It’s his dream, ya’ know?”

Clarke hums. She knows exactly what that feels like, the all-consuming passion that envelops the one thing you truly love.

And no, she’s not talking about doctoring.

Sighing, she turns the black fragment over and over again between her fingers.

_Stop dwelling_ , Clarke scolds herself, staring at the blossoms of white paint. Tracing over it, she commits the ebb and flow of white to her memory.

“What do these patterns mean?” she asks.

“Hey girl, I just dig. Ask Bellamy. He’s a lunatic for that kind of shit.”

Clarke snorts. Yeah, right. Like Bellamy Blake is going to tell her _anything_.

* * *

Three hours later, Bellamy is elbow deep in the dirt, brushing debris off the edge of a roman pot. Jasper stands on a rocky ledge just above him, examining and polishing one of the most recent finds. Clarke Griffin—of course she is—is off to the side somewhere distracting the hell out of his team.

A bubble of laughter swells up from the group lingering around the water jug, and Bellamy huffs. Gritting his teeth, he nearly bites his tongue as a series of snorts and giggles grate against his ears (that laugh is from Miller, and for all the angst that guy may exude his ears never fail to glow red whenever the others give him shit about it).

When he hears Octavia screech “Oh my god, Clarke! That’s absolutely _hilarious!_ ” Bellamy decides that he’s had enough.

“Are you guys going to actually work or are we going to be stuck here an extra week?” he bellows, and they all turn to face him with sheepish grins.

“Yeah!” Jasper parrots above him, taking a few steps forward until the toes of his boots hang over the ledge. “You assholes gonna’ help or what?”

Bellamy is just about to demand that they get over here right _fucking now_ when it happens.

A couple of pebbles patter against the back of Bellamy’s neck, followed by a loud, gravelly whooshing noise. He turns just in time to see the land under Jasper’s feet give out. He seems to float there, suspended, for a mere second, then the world starts to move again, and Jasper falls face-first only to swan dive straight into Bellamy’s chest.

They both go crashing to the ground, legs tangled and heads knocking and arms askew. Bellamy’s shoulder digs painfully into the earth, and he feels rather than sees the others run towards the crash.

Octavia reaches them first, pulling Jasper off of Bellamy with a tug. Just over her shoulder, Monty is hopping around, muttering “oh my god. _Oh my god!”_ under his breath as he wrings his hands together. Raven’s mouth is set in a grim line, and Monroe is rushing forward to steady Jasper on two shaky feet. Bellamy chooses to lie there, flat on the ground, and grit his teeth against the throbbing pain. Suddenly, Clarke is shoving everyone to the side, her keen eyes sweeping over the fall.

“Is your ankle okay?” Clarke asks Jasper as she pushes him back to the ground, yanking is foot up in the air. “Did you twist it any more on the way down?”

“No, I’m fine” Jasper promises with a wince, yanking his foot away from Clarke’s stubborn grip. “It just throbs a little.”

Despite the reassurances, Clarke’s whole face twists in anger as she spins around to face Bellamy, who has just sat up in the dirt and is pressing a hand to his left shoulder with a grimace.

“I told you he wasn’t ready for field work!” She screams at him. “But you insisted, and now look where that’s got him! I can’t believe you’d be so reckless! How could you—”

“Will you just shut up for a second?” Bellamy snaps, pressing his hand harder against his shoulder. He tries to raise his arm, but immediately gives up when a shock of pain races down his body.

“No I won’t shut up! If you would just listen to me for one goddamn second—“ Clarke’s words die off as she notices the wince on his face.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, taking a couple of hesitant steps forward and reaching out to him. He flinches away, and her hand hovers in the air between them, uncertain. Bellamy feels like his skin is burning underneath her palm, a completely illogical feeling he no doubt chides himself for. She isn’t even touching him for God’ sake!

With his throat tight as if he’d inhaled a gallon of smoke, Bellamy feels the pressing urge to get away from Clarke and her smothering touch.

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly, turning and pacing to the water tank, his arm held tightly to his side. He’s only made it a couple of steps when a small hand on his shoulder spins him around.

“No you’re not,” Clarke insists. Eyeing the way he’s cradling his arm, she begins to tug him away from the site. “Come on. I’ll check out your shoulder in the med tent.”

“I said I’m fine!” Bellamy growls, shaking her hand off. The sun is getting to him, it must be, because just looking at the fierce scowl on Clarke’s lips makes him dizzy.

“You’re only hurting yourself here, Bellamy.” Clarke scolds, glaring at him, and her ferocity drains what little fight he had in him out in a hot puff of breath.

They lock eyes for a moment longer. Finally, Bellamy nods, gesturing out with his good hand.

“Lead the way, Princess,” he jeers, smirking when she scowls and marches up the slope to her med tent. He follows her, steps growing slower and slower with every “hurry the hell up!” Clarke snaps at him.

Silence envelopes the rest of the group as they disappear through the flap of the tent.

“Wow,” Raven breathes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she broke his other arm too.”

Octavia laughs. Monroe just shakes her head.

* * *

Inside the tent, Bellamy glares at the flap opening while Clarke pokes and prods at his shoulder. It hurts like hell, but he’d be damned before he let the Princess know that.

For some reason, Clarke goes silent the moment they step into the tent. Maybe it is the fact that this is the first time since they have met that they’ve ever been alone, or maybe it is the way the dust has settled around them, but either way something has changed, and it leaves a knot of anxiety in Bellamy’s stomach. He stares at a rip in the nylon wall until his eyes blur, and it isn’t until Clarke presses her palm flat against his chest and jostles him that he turns to look her in the eyes.

“It’s definitely dislocated,” she murmurs, the quietest he’s ever heard her. “Four weeks in a sling, minimum.” At this, Bellamy lets out a breath of air, screwing his eyes shut and dropping his head until his nose brushes his knees.

_Four weeks_ , he thinks. _Four fucking weeks._ Bellamy knows how much this screws with everything, and when he looks up, the look on Clarke’s face makes him think that she does too. _Four goddamn weeks_ , he thinks again. _Kane’s never going to fund me again_.

As Bellamy feels his heart shatter through his skin, Clarke bites her lip, glancing around furtively as if someone might be hiding in the tent with them, before tilting her head closer to his.

“Listen.” Her voice is barely louder than a whisper, and he swears he can see his own reflection in her eyes. “I know how hard Kane is riding you on this, and I know this really fucks everything up. So…” she hesitates, looking behind her again before resting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll pop your shoulder back into place, as risky as that is.”

Bellamy stares at her and she stares right back, eyes hard and steady even as her hand twists into the hem of her shirt.

“Doesn’t that go against every form of first aid to ever exist?” He asks, eyebrows low in confusion. _Doesn’t that go against everything you’ve ever been taught?_ He fails to ask.

“Mhm,” she affirms while she presses both of her palms to his shoulder, one in front and one in back. “I could lose this job if anyone finds out. So, is that a yes?” His eyes rove over her face, from her waiting eyes to the stubborn curl of her lip, and nods.

Then his shoulder _snaps_.

“Aw, fuck!” He bellows, throwing his head back and tensing his jaw. Clarke’s hands disappear from his shoulder, and he drops his head down to glare at her. “Warn me next time, will you Princess?” he growls, pressing his good hand to his relocated shoulder.

Clarke shrugs, twisting around to grab a bag of ice. “The anticipation would’ve hurt more,” she says over her shoulder before pressing the bag against his arm. He hisses, but Clarke ignores it, picking up her clipboard and logging in the time.

“I’ll put it down as a pulled muscle,” she says, tapping her pen against her teeth before scribbling something down. “No one will be able to verify it anyway.”

“Why?” He blurts out, and immediately winces at how goddamn childish he sounds. He doesn’t need to know why. As long as she did it, it doesn’t matter (except that it did). “I mean,” he corrects. “Why’d you bother?” Clarke chuckles lightly, but when she looks at him there’s not a trace of humor in her gaze.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asks. “We need you, Bellamy.” Okay, well. He certainly wasn’t expecting _that_. The surprise must show on his face, because the edge of a smirk dangles on the corner of Clarke’s mouth.

“Yeah, that means me too. You may be an ass half the time, but I need you.”

Bellamy sits there, eyes wide and bewildered. Not half an hour ago, they were ripping at each other like dogs, and now she’s confiding in him about how much she needs him. The shift from charged hatred to reluctant respect had happened so fast that his stomach flips from vertigo.

Clarke sets the clipboard down by his leg and readjusts the ice pack she’d wrapped to his shoulder.

“Ice it again three times tonight, twenty minutes each, and you’ll be fine for tomorrow.” Bellamy nods, unable to say anything behind his reeling thoughts, and she turns to walk away. Before she’s out of the tent, though, Clarke spins around and says with eyes all too serious for her the light lilt of her voice:

“I wouldn’t be here unless you’d started this dig, right?”

Her loose hair swings across her back as she tugs at the tent flap once again.

_Why do you even want to be here, anyways?_

It’s the only thought that pops into Bellamy’s head, but he doesn’t think to ask her until she’s already out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone let me know that the whole shoulder dislocation thing at the end is wholly inaccurate. I approached it from what a person with only basic first aid should and shouldn't do and not what a certified doctor should and shouldn't do. So, I ask of you to please take a step back from reality and not let my totally insufficient research on this topic affect your enjoyment of the fic! Also, if you ever see something inconsistent or inaccurate in my fic, don't hesitate to let me know!
> 
> My tumblr is gunsandbellamyblake. Come chat with me!


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